I am Living Dead

Everyone dies twice; there is the physical death when the body dies, the heart stops beating, the lungs stop breathing, the brain stops thinking. Then there is the tribal death, when the spirit leaves the earth after the family has mourned and the life that was lived is celebrated. It is common for most tribes to give someone a tribal death only after that person has had their physical death. But our ways are more civilized. We give the tribal death first so the spirit is waiting in the afterlife; we do not leave our ghosts behind. We celebrate the life the person has had and mourn that person's passing while the sick or old wait for their physical death. That person is then left in an in-between state, neither living nor dead.

I was a hunter, a good hunter. I would bring home fresh meat to my family that we would eat or trade for the things we needed or wanted. I hunted many animals: the abundant antelope, the mighty wildebeest, the villainous crocodile, the cunning monkey. We ate their flesh and their organs, and I decorated my hut with their skulls and bones so others could revel in my success. My wives have grown fat and my children have grown strong off of my work. We are wealthy.

We have cows, of course, every civilized tribe has cows, but we do not eat their flesh. We need them for their milk that we turn into soured cream and cheese. When they grow too old and are no longer useful, we honour them and decorate our village walls with their skulls so the other tribes can see how rich we are and how ancient our traditions are. The walls stretch for many strides and can be seen at great distances. They know we are an ancient and powerful tribe.

I have the sickness. I am thin, black spots mark my body, and open wounds taunt me. When the shaman told me I had the sickness, my family honoured me by giving me a tribal death. We feasted and celebrated my life, we drank and mourned. They have moved on while I wait for my body to die.

My brother was not as lucky; his body died in an accident while hunting a boar. His spirit would have been trapped on this earth until his tribal death when his family celebrated and mourned him. My spirit waits for me in the afterlife. After his death, his wives became my wives, and his children became my children. When I die my wives will not be allowed to marry for one year to make sure that they do not have the sickness as well. If they show no signs, then they can remarry. But not my first wives, they are too old to bear more children so they will be cared for by our children as they grow too infirm to take care of themselves.

I wait for death on a straw mat on the floor in my hut. Twice a day my first wife comes and empties a pot of my waste and brings me food of soured cream and boiled sweet root. The food is soft and weak like me. I am afraid. I do not want to die.

Once I was strong, I could hunt for days and not tire, now I can barely stand; I could share my seed with my wives and mistresses several times a day, now my manhood is as useless and as soft as my food. Once my laughter could be heard across the village, but now I am not heard in my home. I want meat roasted over fire, rare and bloody like I used to eat, the food of the strong and young. Now I eat the food reserved for children and the infirm.

I try to talk to my wife when she enters the room but she does not answer, one does not speak to the dead.

But I am not dead, I breathe, I eat, I piss. After weeks of waiting for death, I decide that the shaman was wrong, I am not going to die. I stand, I leave my room. My family sits on floor mats eating their breakfast, none look at me but my granddaughter who reaches for me, her face lit up with youthful excitement, but her mother makes her look away.

“Do not look at the dead,” she says.

“I am not dead,” I say to no one.

I reach for food but my son moves it away from me. “I am not dead,” I say again. “I am hungry.”

I feel weak and dizzy from being made to lay in bed for so long and from eating soft weak food.

“I want meat.” They do not respond. “I have provided for this family for years, I will eat what I want. I am the head of this house. I am not dead.” I am yelling because I am angry. I am strong enough to yell, I am not as weak as think I am.

I leave the house. It is a beautiful day, the sun shines on the village and the children play their noisy little games. I see my friend Kwame sitting outside his hut. I sit beside him; he does not look at me.

“Hello my old friend,” I say. He does not respond. “A wonderful day is it not?”

“It is not right for you to be here,” he says. “I have mourned you, I have moved on. I cannot look at you. I cannot talk to the dead.” And my friend stands and walks away.

I am angry. “I am not dead,” I yell after him. I am not dead.

Women stop their children from playing their games and move them away from me, covering their eyes so that they cannot look at me. This hurts me. Once when I was young and successful, women would point me out to their children saying, “this is what you can be when you are big and strong.”

My son has found the shaman and they are standing over me.

“You are dead,” says the shaman. “You must return to your home. You have worked hard your whole life now you must rest.”

I shake my head. “No, I am alive.”

“This is a confusing time for people like you,” says the shaman, the bones in his hair clang together like chimes. “You are dead, but your body breathes and your heart beats. You think you are alive but you are not, you are living dead. You must accept what you are otherwise you will cause too much pain to your family. Look at your son, see how much pain he is in. Look at your wives, see how much they want you to be happy. Look at your grandchildren, see how confused they are.”

I look up. My children stand outside my hut with their children who look at me, pleading; it is more than I can bear. I feel shame. It is not fair of me to treat my family so poorly. I feel weak and dizzy. I need to lay down.

I know he is right, I am living dead. I just did not want to believe it. I have been acting like a fool. I look at my son, he is hurt by me. I look at my body. It is thin and weak and covered in open sores. I have the sickness, I am dying. I let them lead me back to my room, they have to carry me, I am too weak to walk on my own. I look at my hut for the last time from the outside, the hides and bones that show my wealth, the monkey skulls that line the entrance.

I lay on the mat to eat the soft sweet root and the soured cream; I lay on my mat to wait for death. It is for the best. I am not alive even if my body is. I am living dead.